


Name Your Poison, Darling

by vaeltaa



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James realises he hasn't correctly predicted any of this man's intentions since he first walked into the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name Your Poison, Darling

"What makes you think this is my first time?"

"Pupils dilated, a small shiver... Do I make you nervous, James?" Silva smoothes his hands slowly back upwards the other man's thighs, adding a renewed, slight pressure in his grip. Bond doesn't reply because whatever his answer, he'd loose. He tries stifling the slight tremble working its deceiving way up his leg.

"No," Silva ponders out loud. "This is not your first time bound and vulnerable in the company of..." Silva trails off for a moment, letting his hands pause at the lower curve of Bond's pelvic hip muscles, one thumb lightly ghosting over the outline of his cock. 

"In the company of bad men," he continues. "That is true, but..." He grins, eyelids low and a perfect row teeth exposed. "You and I both know that was not what I meant."

Silva swiftly twists his hand up between Bond's legs, cupping his clothed balls and gently fingering the sensitive bit of skin further up. Bond can't help but shudder at the flash of deeply ingrained pain in his memory that the intimate touch ignites, and he tightens his muscles in an involuntary response. 

"Hmm," Silva hums, eyes gleaming at the achieved reaction. "Montenegro," he says, almost solemn, and purses his lips. "I must admit that specific mission report in of your file caught my eye. Very interesting reading." Silva nods softly, as if to underline his words while his right hand continues to expertly stroke Bond through his trousers.

Bond tries to keep focusing on the memory of the excruciating primal pain, but his cock hardens still and he curses his own body's lack of obedience to the rational part of his brain. The part that knows pain should be avoided as a sign of danger. Always subordinate to the masochistic streak that let him dig bullet fragments out of his own shoulder with a blade without a second thought. 

The pleasurable, warm touch is momentarily gone and Bond snaps his eyes open, realising he'd let them drift shut. The chair opposite him is back where it originally stood, and Silva is standing next to it, removing his perfectly tailored cream jacket and placing it on the seat.

"You seem to know my entire life story," Bond points out, voice flat. "Yet I don't even know your name."

"All in good time, James. All in good time."

The dark vest underneath is close and fitted around the blonde man's waist and eccentrically patterned shirt, and Bond briefly admires the cut, but then Silva is behind him and in a rough pull that takes seemingly no effort at all, his own shirt and dark, silk-lined dress jacket are simultaneously tugged down over his bound arms, exposing his sculpted upper chest and torso.

His left suspender is halfway caught on his shoulder, and Silva lets out a small chuckle as he pulls it all the way down, delicately placed between two fingers. The clothing trapped around his arms restrains his movements further, and Bond wriggles a little to test it.

"Ah ah," Silva warns, gently tap-walking his fingers down across Bond's chest while walking around to face him again. "No need to struggle, Mr. Bond," he continues, resuming his position in front of the other man, hands further spreading his legs open, and bends down to kneel between them in one swift motion.

"I only," Silva pauses to unzip Bond's trousers, his voice dropping deep and impossibly low. 

"Want." He frees his half-erect cock, grips it at the base and raises one eyebrow up at James. 

"A little taste."

Bond steels himself and tries to focus his eyes on the elevator on the other side of the room, unwilling to watch this bloody madman suck him off and let him further witness the undeniable arousal and defeat in his eyes; but the anticipated hot wetness of the other man's mouth lingers just out of reach. 

Bond has to look.

Silva's breath is warm yet chilly at the same time as he cheekily halts, breathing just over the slick tip, lips inches away from touch. "Christ," Bond mutters. "You're taking the blow part of the word a bit too literally."

Silva just laughs under his breath and the sudden rapid change in warm, hot airflow inches away from his cock sets off a wave of shivers down Bond's spine. James realises he hasn't correctly predicted any of this man's intentions since he first walked into the room. 

Silva begins slowly fisting Bond's cock in his hand and wets his lower lip. "Shall we see if there's any of the old 007 left? To live up to his - hmm, _big_ reputation," he smiles and runs his free hand through a rebellious lock of bleached hair, patting it back down in place and letting his hand fall back on Bond's upper thigh. 

Bond smirks and starts on a equally toying reply, but it escapes his mouth as a groan when Silva finally swallows him whole. Bond loses all focus and lets his primal brain take over and watches Silva's lips stretch around his length, creating a bulging protrusion in his left cheek. Beyond a light grazing of teeth, Bond feels something unnaturally smooth in the cavity of the other man's mouth, but the question on his lips is distorted by Silva's tongue flicking over the tip, and down the side and back up again and Bond's lip trembles as he slowly exhales a controlled breath. 

The former agent between his legs rarely breaks eye contact, except when seemingly lost in his own lust. Bond feels the watchful eyes of Silva's henchmen somewhere behind him, but he can't decide if that fact is turning him on or putting him off. Something in between, he recons. Thankfully, he wasn't known to take issue with an audience.

The sculpted line of Silva's jaw moves up and down as the muscles in in throat delicately work to take Bond down, deeper. He takes him all the way down to the base and stills, strange dark blue eyes fixed on Bond's as he swallows, and the enclosing tightness at the back of his throat makes Bond see stars, and then Silva moans around him and grips his torso with both hands. Bond bucks upwards, gasping from the depths of his lungs. 

Silva just elegantly moves with Bond's body and sucks upwards, slowly releasing him with an obscene pop, leaving a string of saliva connecting to his lips. Bond's chest is moving at a increasingly quicker pace despite his attempts at remaining in control, and his restrained pectorals are coated in a slight sheen of sweat, glistening in the muted daylight streaming in from the high windows. 

His head is slightly tilted back, yet as he watches Silva's slick, slightly swollen lips, a challenge dances behind his cool blue gaze; _is that all you've got?_

Bond has to say it. If this was a game, he was all in. 

"Is that it?" he says, slow and between clenched teeth, pressure on every syllable. For a moment, he thinks Silva's going to stop and he briefly considers which option would honestly be more torturous. His cock is on the verge of painful, its throbbing hardness still in the other man's grip. Then he realises Silva is laughing. 

"No," he says, shaking his head. "The best is yet to come, James." Bond's eyes widen curiously as he watches Silva raise his left hand up to his mouth, thoughtfully thumbing at his own upper lip. 

"You asked for my name," he says, almost conspiratory, like he's hiding a great secret. "There is an alias but I feel we've moved past those, yes?" Silva continues, his thumb still edging along his upper lip, a gesture that seems not unlike rubbing your temples to soothe a headache, and Bond imagines he probably does it a lot without being aware of it, like tending to a subconscious itch, but Bond doesn't yet understand why. 

Silva stills, back to the present from wherever his thoughts momentarily strayed. "Tiago Rodriguez, former esteemed agent of MI6," he says, smiling, almost boastful. "At your service, and, still esteemed," he winks subtly at Bond.

Bond vaguely recognises the name, but can't immediately recall any further information beyond what he already knows. "Pleasure," he drawls, acutely aware of the insistent throbbing in his cock and shifts to ease the pressure on his sore balls, and wishes the other man would loosen his grip or start moving again, or anything at all.

Silva's smile fades, and he shifts to raise one knee up to steady himself, the other remaining on the floor and he leans forward, bringing his left hand back to touch at his mouth. "When you remember this moment, I want you to think of my real name," he says and reaches four fingers into his mouth and there's an alien sound of prosthetic veneers making a wet artificial click against solid bone and something inside Bond goes cold as he watches the other man's cheek halfway collapse in on itself and removing what kept it in place.

His left eye droops a little, the red brim beyond the waterline slightly visible and Bond keeps his expression neutral but something stirs inside and it's a crippling mix of initial shock, revolt, and a pang of morbid fascination, slowly melting together and blending with his arousal until he can't tell them apart. He swallows hard, quickly realising the other man's true intent.

"Think of my real name," Silva repeats and his smile is a cavern and his voice is distorted and bleak, as if it suddenly lost its last shred of humanity. "Just like you will think of my real face." 

He bends down again and this time it's sloppy and different and horrible and _hollow_ and Bond's moan is part base knee-jerk disgust and part pain from fighting his climax for so long and the mouth around his cock shouldn't be so good when it feels so wrong and he nearly loses it. 

It's as if the lack of teeth and bone makes Silva even better, as if the prosthetic were restraints holding him back, and he goes slow and fast with unparalleled enthusiasm. The previously fixed lock of hair falls back down out of place and Bond yearns to grab a hold on the other man and nearly rubs his wrists raw against the rope behind his back.

Silva takes him all the way down to the base a final time and lets his ruined vocal chords vibrate a moan around his length, and he looks up at Bond through the messy strands of blonde hair hanging down in his face, and it's enough. Bond cries out and shudders through an overpowering orgasm, momentarily seeing nothing but white behind his lids.

Silva doesn't release him but keeps sucking, and swallows until Bond goes limp and his trembling knees subside, and then finally pulls his head back, and watches Bond's breathing return to semi-normal, expression hard to gauge through the broken facial features. Silva puts the prosthesis back in place with a soft, moist popping sound, and stops a drop of spit or cum or both from running down his jaw, and licks it casually off his finger.

Neglecting to put Bond decently back in his trousers, Silva stands up to smooth his hair in place and retrieves his jacket from the chair, putting it on and adjusting the collar. He stands and looks inscrutably at a sweaty, dishevelled Bond, glaring up from his seated position. 

Bond clears his throat. "Well?"

Silva gives him an over dramatic puzzled look, eyes wide. 

"You wanted a taste. How was it?" Bond asks, his sly smirk returning to his face with the return of the blood to his head.

"Hm," Silva decides to humour him, and pretends at mulling the question over for a bit, cocking his head at the spent agent below.

Suddenly Silva leans in close, putting one hand on the back of Bond's chair for support and speaks low in his ear. 

"A little bitter, James." His breath is hot on Bond's neck. 

"All your drinking, you really should find another remedy. And then? Who knows, maybe next time it will be sweeter."

~~


End file.
